Out On Our Own
by Knightime
Summary: When a mysterious alien fugitive escapes to Earth, it will take a ragtag group of young heroes to decipher the conspiracy and save the world. Featuring Robin, Kid Flash, Cyborg, Wonder Girl, Beast Boy, Speedy, Starfire, Superboy, the origin of the Team, and much, much more. Set in an alternate Young Justice universe, with an original version of the origin of the Team.
1. I-Wrestling Crocodiles

Disclaimer: I own none of the preexisting elements ( such as copyrighted characters, places, etc.) that I am using, with no consent whatsoever of the creaters/ owners, in my completely unprofessional and unprofiting attempt at a "story". (But I can wish, can't I?)

Author's Note: Yo. As first of first of firsts, this chapter is Leader O' Da Pack. It is the beginner of something new. Something fantastic. Something, I hope, is going to benefit ALL of us. The beginner of my Alternative Young Justice stories, and therefore, you guys don't know anything on the subject of "Background." So here it is: This story uses the Young Justice Season 1 versions of most of the characters, unless otherwise 'Noted by moi, but does not line up with Young Justice Continuity. Robin (Grayson) is the same, is 13. KF is same, is 14. . . . . And, of course, I promised you all an alien fugitive... Well, you guys'll just have'ta put on your waiting hats and be patient. But fear not, she- - oops, HINT- - she will come.

-I-

Wrestling Crocodiles

Gotham City. May 7. 20:27 EST.

The sewer was dank. It smelled damp and garbagy and rodenty and... well, sewery. Robin thought the place was depulsive.

"This place is depulsive, Boss!" he quietly complained.

But Batman offered no acknowledgment. He just kept walking in front, leading, brooding. He did not ask what Robin meant by "depulsive". He had already come to terms with the fact that one of the wonders of the so-called "Teen Wonder" was the ability to reshape words: Whelmed from over-/ underwhelmed; aster from disaster; and, in this case, depulsive from repulsive.

With his shadow-black cape trailing behind him in the surface of the murky, disgusting sewer water, Robin stepped up to Batman's left, beginning to become frantic in the claustrophobic tunnel, just as the Dark Knight Detective had said it would.

"What the _heck _are we _doing_ down here, Boss," Robin asked, looking for the encouragement that he knew would not come. He also knew what the _heck_ they were _doing_ down there, in the dark, depressing sewer.

He remembered the training session when he had been told about taking out the Killer Croc. _Killer Croc. _So what, Robin had thought. A murderer with a funny schtick that matches his name. Oooooh, scary. He'd beaten a whole bunch of those idiots. But Robin had never fought anyone even _close_ to _Killer Croc. _This guy was one _Batman_ had fought; never with Robin. As the Boss had told Robin the KCs' specks, Robin had grown increasingly worried. Razorsharp teeth, dogish- crocish- snout, scale-armoured tail, completely mutated and insanely strong body, and an uncontrolled rage without any hope of being tempered.

The Dynamic Duo had drilled the strategy five and seven and twelve times. When the Flying Grayson would get something wrong, or have doubts, or feel that he couldn't go on, the Demon of the Night would offer encouragement and advice, but he kept warning him, "Don't count on this friendly encouragement and helpful advice from me. In the heat of battle,will there be any friendly encouragement or helpful advice? NO. So don't get off expecting it."

And the Boss had been right on two counts: It wouldn't be there and Robin shouldn't have been looking for it. But he was and the only message to be found on those emotionless white slats that served for the masked manhunter's eyes was 'stay alert, get focused, be vigilant, and prepare for the fight.'

Grayson would just have to do his best.

The sewer water had been picking up speed for the last few minutes, though from the rainwater gushing into the sewer from the street surface gutters or from something... more foreboding... Robin couldn't tell. Another thing Robin couldn't be sure of was the elapsing of time: Those minutes mentioned earlier? They were only minutes as far as Grayson, Robin, knew. In a dark sewer with no way to tell time, you couldn't exactly tell minutes from seconds from hours from minutes .

One thing he was _very_ sure about, though, was the _darkness. _The sewer seemed to stretch on endlessly. There was no light to see the ends of the squat tunnel, or even the sides, except what meager light did come from the gutters and their light sticks. Even that light, though, was only enough to see gross circles of sewer water around them. There could be any number of supply closets and auxiliary tunnels and decayed patches in the wall for someone- - or some_thing_- - to hide in. There was no _way _for Robin to prepare himself for... whatever it was that was going to come and happen...

_No,_ thought the Teen Wonder. _I'm not just some 'wonder'ful acrobat who can unshape words 'wonder'fully. If I was, Batman would not have chosen me as his protege. _Now all Robin had to do was be sure and not prove the Boss wro- -

The following events happened so fast, and were so incredibly terrifying, they were even muddled to the Teen Wonder. Robin and Batman were stepping forward still, Grayson lost in his thought, when suddenly they discovered the reason for the sped-up sewer water: 2 auxiliary tunnels feeding into the main one, the one Robin and Batman had been in. The sudden addition of gushing, compacted, surprising water had left the Duo Dynamica unbalanced and finding their bearings. That, coupled with the gut wrenching, horrible, reverberating _roar_ that came from the auxiliary to Robins right, sent him to his knees, his light stick splashing into the sewer water rapids.

Fairly quickly after that, Robin's senses came back to him. He didn't even try to muck about in the rapids after his light stick; no doubts about it, his light stick was lost. But the small, dirty light from Batman's... well, Robin would have said (if he could have found his voice) that it was _too much _light: the _thing _that came into view from the starboard auxiliary was too absatively-posilutey horrendous for words. But I shall try.

You could tell it had once been human, almost. It was covered with scales that seemed too hard and sharp and heavy to exist on a human being; but then again, this _Killer Croc_ wasn't exactly "human". Its tail hung limply, painfully, falling behind the C_roc _as if it had been horribly dislocated and had never quite healed right, which was very likely. Its snout seemed as if it had been stuck on by some third grader with a too-vivid imagination; there were no lips around the razor sharp teeth, but if there were, they would have covered and caked with dried blood. The ligaments were completely mutated; one arm was bulbous and huge, one leg was shriveled and small, etc. Instead of nails the creature had dirty black _claws. _And all of him that was visible (except for those few parts that were bloodstained) , scale or otherwise, was as green as the water he was currently running through (in Robins general direction. He probably couldn't see Batman, melted into the shadows, waiting; he probably couldn't see very well in fact.)

All of this Robin had to take in in the amount of time that two frames in stop-motion occupied. And it terrified him. But he had a job to do. And he was going to do it well; Batman was counting on him.

His job: keep Killer Croc distracted so Batman could do his Batman thing. Distraction...? How do you distract a nine- foot- tall sewer monster?

"You mock him," was the answer Grayson came with. _Easy_, thought he. _Autopilot to the third-power!_

Doing a back flip up off the ground while cupping his hands around his mouth and bending his head up at the monster, he shouted, "Hey, yo'momma was'a sa'mander! Yo'justa witto'bitty gecko! Do'ya got'gieko?! I'don' think'so! Cuz'y'ur justa witto'bittygeh-cko! Hahah-ha!"

He had the _Croc's _attention.

It was not good attention. Not AT ALL. Period.

As the Creature From the Black Sewer charged, Batman did his thing. Never even coming out of the shadows, he jumped, flicked his wrists. The two Bat-a-rangs lodged into chinks in Killer Crocs scale-armor, sending a ka-jillion- or- so volts right into his soaked system.

Killer Croc roared in rage, in pain, in madness. And while his mouth was screaming open, Robin kick-started phase three. Rebounding off the wall he been gliding towards, he did an upside down aero-cartwheel, taking out pellets full of knockout gas from his utility belt, flipping his wrists, and throwing the pellets into _Crocs _mouth. The pellets popped the gas into the KCs snout . . .

...only to be blown out by the wind coming from the _Crocs_ mouth. "OooOoh, _crap,_" muttered Robin, who was looking the monster square in the eyes, or rather, in the _snout. _He wasvery,_ very, __**very **_angry now, and Robin was the first living thing he saw. There was less than a yard between prey and predator, the predator could bite off half of the preys arm in one, swift, _painful_ motion. And then, open jawed, Croc charged Robin.

Screaming, Robin surged backwards through the sewer water, away from the monster looking for a new kill. Into the depths of his utility belt went his left hand, and out it brought two of whatever-it-was that was in the first capsule his hand landed on.

Fortunately, it was eggs-actly what Robin needed: Two circular Robin-rangs with an empty space in the center that he put his hands in like boxing gloves.

The Teen Wonder had just enough time to accidentally throw out his left arm in a reflex as Killer Croc bit down at him. When Grayson opened his eyes (he didn't even realize he had closed them) he noticed that, again, he was blessed; Croc had bit down on the sides where there were the hard steel blades were. _Well, fancy that, _thought Robin. _Apparently my Robin-rangs are hard enough to stop the bite of a raging mutant crocodile monster. Huzzah!_

Just to test his luck, he tried squeezing the 'rang, immediately after pulling his hand out quick as lightning, as the Boss had taught him. Sure enough, he had grabbed crystallizing-ice-pellet-a-rangs, which meant that ice pellets flew and burst all throughout Crocs mouth. These, though, were not the kind ice-pellets that made ice out of liquid or gas that would just blow out of Crocs mouth; these were the kind that just _crystallized _as soon as they hit fresh air. Or, in this case, sewer air.

There were so many crystallizing ice pellets that Crocs entire head, which was considerably large considering the snout and all-around mutations, was eventually completely covered in ice crystals. It took just less than three seconds for Killer Croc to suffocate to unconsciousness, and fall to the floor of the squat sewer tunnel. Upon impact with solid ground, the ice encasing the Crocs head crashed apart and floated downstream.

For a few moments, all Grayson could do was stand there, in the sewer, and stare, wide-eyed, at the creature laying there in front of him. Robin's breathing was uneven, short, ragged.

But then he realized the _extent_ of what he had just accomplished. He felt like a squire who has pat the tests and become a knight. _I've slain my first dragon, _thought the red and green clad Robin, _I've done it with _zero_ bloodshed and I barely needed any help _at all. Then Robin realized something. Once Batman had done his part, he has just stood there, in the shadows. Even when everything went bad, he had offered no help. It wasn't, "You try and fail on your own. If you are about to get killed, I'll go in and _help,_" it was "survive or die."

Robin wasn't sure how he felt about that, or how it would affect their partnership, but he did know he had a mess to clean up. So from his utility belt he brought out a length of thin steel intertwined twine he would use as makeshift hand-cuffs for the unconscious Killer Croc_. _

As Robin bent down to start tying the twine around Croc's hands, the beasts eyes angrily fluttered open. Roaring, the creature threw his open maw straight up at Robin, who, because of Croc's drowsiness, was able to bound away. Grayson spied Batman still watching whether or not he would survive, and realized he would have to figure something out to save his tuckus.

The Teen Wonder then got a wonderful idea. "Up and over!" he shouted to Batman, hoping he understood.

Robin took the taught twine and jumped up to meet Croc. At the last moment he tucked his head, closed his eyes, shoved his arms, as open as could be, holding the twine down, and flipped. He only hoped Batman would come through.

He did. Right as the twine caught on Croc's neck and pulled him somewhat into the air, Batman was right where he was needed. Quick as a bat flapping his wings.

Batman found his way underneath Croc, kicked straight up, sending the murderer flying into the wall of the sewer.

Robin pumped his fist, still holding onto the crystallizing-ice-pellet-a-rang, into the air. "Tee-Kay-Oooooh!" shouted he.

"Don't get too cocky yet,"came the gruff voice of the Night's Demon.

Robin almost asked what he meant, but he already had his answer. He turned his face and started clean up. Even so, a familiar sound snapped him from his sulk. The sound was the sound of rushing water. Batman had kicked Croc so hard he'd ruptured the pipes in the wall. So many, in fact, that the water coming surging out was so much that pushed the entire crowd out of the sewer tunnel and into what seemed to be a gigantic sink, a great collection chamber.

It was at least thirty yards tall, at least fifty in circumference. There were about a dozen tunnels emptying out into the huge chamber filling it about a third of the way with water. There was a great big hole at the bottom where all the water emptied into.

Robin squeezed the 'rang and threw it up. The grape-sized pellets actually froze blocks of water, big enough to be used as stepping stones.

_Nice, _thought Robin. He and Batman jumped from block to block, eventually getting far enough up that they could fire their grappling-hooks without too much interference from the water.

At the end of this predicament, the Dynamic Duo found themselves hanging from their grapples on the top of some sort of collective sewer with nothing to show for it, not even a souvenir. And something _else_ they did not have was Croc. From the ripples and bubbles in the sewery soup Robin came to the obvious and slightly saddening conclusion: Killer Croc got away.

Batman said nothing, only pressed a button on his utility belt.

"What, no congratulations?" Robin asked, a little frustrated, a little angry. " A simple Nice job kid, you didn't die would suffice."

"Why should I congratulate you when the mission was a failure? I was counting on you and you failed. You let the raging sewer monster get lost in the water and fall into the emptying pipe. This was a test and you failed," growled Batman.

"Hey! How was I supposed to do anything if you were just brooding in the sha- -"

Batman gave Robin the kind of look that said "Shut. Up. Or. Die." Robin shut up. He was to young to die.

_So, what? _thought Robin. _Is Batman _blaming_ me? Or . . . Bats had said it was a test. So was it fake? Obviously . . . _Even with all those self-made assurances, Robin was unsure. Could it have been real? Robin looked over at Batman, but got nothing from that blank white stare.

Then, from the sewer tunnel in front of them, came the awesome-looking Hydro-Jet. The two swung over to it, got in their different positions in the cockpit. Batman started piloting it somewhere they had not been before. He pressed a button and a compartment in front of Robin opened. Shades, a leather jacket, jeans, tennis shoes- what he would normally were in public.

"Boss, what's this for and where are we going?" Grayson asked as he began changing.

"We're picking someone up," came the enigmatic reply from the Batman.


	2. II-Rain Check

-I-I-

Rain Check

Central City. May 7. 19:23 EST.

Does the phrase "flash-flood" ring any bells? Because that just about sums up the whole of Wally West's, A.K.A Kid Flash's (the Kid or K. F. for short), and the Flash's (CSI Allen, or Uncle Barry to Wally) situation at present.

The latest Central City maniac was an idiot with a wand calling himself _Weather Wizard_. He, unfortunately, lived up to his name: When he waved his wand in any particular direction, he could conjure up a heat wave, a blizzard, a tornado. In this case, it was the two Flashs' direction. With a flood. Again, Kid Flash asks, does "flash flood" ring any bells? 'Cause it was really jarring all his around the street.

Uncle Barry looked in the Kid's direction, making a swirly motion with a finger, then started counting down from five on his fingers. For a moment, Wally thought they were going to try and discourage the Weather Wizard by shouting at him that he was crazy, but then realized that he would just make another rainstorm, right into their throats. He then figured the senior Flash must have meant to create water tornados by spinning their arms at super-speed.

The vortexes ripped through the small river created by the City's newest weatherman, impacting him in a huge, colliding water-shoot. His flood slowly drained away.

Hopefully squinting into the sun set from his vantage point behind an overturned tree, Wally called across to his uncle, "Did we get him?"

The Flash narrowed his eyes and braced. "I don't _know_."

People came out of their homes. All was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of peace you find before a hurricane. "The calm before the storm," Kid Flash murmured, over the raucous of people playing in the not-yet drained flood. He squinted, hunched, clenched his fists, mimicking his Uncle. "I don't like it - - "

The clouds they hadn't noticed coming together overhead erupted in a flurry of ice, snow, sleet, and hail. After they helped get civilians to safety, they took evasive action themselves, eventually taking cover behind debris - - cars, pieces of wall, ripped out pieces of street. Over the sound of his gritted teeth grinding, Kid Flash had a vague impression of hearing his uncle speaking directedly, though not to him, and only vaguely.

The feeling you get when the g's are pressing your head against the back of the roller-coaster seat, but you still try to turn your head to see your best friend who's sitting next to you, who hates roller-coasters? Almost the same, Wally thought right then, as the feeling of pressing yourself against an overturned car in the middle the street while a madman is trying to kill you with a snow storm, and you're trying to see who your awesome superhero-detective-uncle is talking to.

Straining, Kid Flash moved his hand up to his goggles, so he could use them to magnify the Flash and lip read, or as the Kid called it, long-range eaves drop. Through a squint, he read the following:

"Just a sec, Bat's." Then, a yell directed at Kid Flash, "Gotta take this." Barry was talking into his comm link.

Once Wally registered what had been said, which really was not very long, he began shouting to his Uncle Barry to please not go and leave me here to turn into a Sidekick-cicle, but his only reply was the senior Flash's Boy-Scout salute, then he was gone, vibrating at a faster speed than the human eye could follow. Of course, Kid Flash could've sped up his perception and tracked him, but he didn't. He just focused on taking down the _Weather Wizard_.

He didn't need the Flash. He could do this on his own without getting himself killed.

Right...?

He put his hands over the top of the car he was hiding behind and pulled himself up to scope out the situation, as a hunting dog listens for the smell of a deer. The _Weather Wizard _was still as crazy as ever in his green and yellow trench coat (or was it a rain coat?), laughing and smiling at his storm, his destruction. The sidekick knit his brow, thinking, _What would Uncle Barry do? _He really might just rush the baddy. _Okay, then, _thought Wally West. And he rushed the wacko standing on the ice-mound.

Unfortunately, that gave away his position, and because of all the people hiding in their homes, he couldn't break the sound-barrier because he would cut up the civilians with broken glass from his boom. This, again, very unfortunately, gave the _Weather Wizard _a fraction to figure out a way to protect himself.

_ Finally a little good news_, thought streak of gold running superfast yet softly: the wacky _Weather Wizard _had chosen to hit the junior speedster with a _tornado. _He began running in circles with the tornado, controlling it, guiding it over unto the one who had brought it about. He smiled as he watched the _Weather Wizard_'s smile disappear, his hair whirl even more, as he began to float up into currents of the wind; Kid Flash smiled as he himself felt the lightning-carged adrenaline kicking into his veins, as his own speed added with that of the tornado's pushed him forth almost air born. But then he caught wind of the debris flying around, the scared face of a child in his window watching as the very car Kid Flash had been hiding behind flew towards him. _Oh, no..., _thought Kid Flash.

_This must stop!_

He sped up his perception ten fold, and lightning-esque golden-white-glowing energy surged out from every part of him- the effects of using the _Speed Force_. To him, everyone- every_thing- _was almost stuck in place. He began to run in the other direction at what seemed to him to be an average speed, but in fact he was going faster than the human eye could follow. Then he could tell he going faster, for he was literally being pushed thither by the Speed Force. A strange sensation followed. He couldn't quite see the world moving, but he could see it. . . _changing_. He imagined this might be what it was like to watch the timestream change after you mess around with time travel.

Once he was sure the tornado had been taken care of, he switched gears back to the little kid in the window, watching as the car crashed through the air towards him. It was even closer to the window now and it would be dangerous to crash through it to get to the kid. And if he couldn't crash through the window, how would he save the little guy? It was all so _confusing_.

Wally shouted an angry-curse substitute before saying "AAAGH! What would Uncle Barry do?!" Once he said it he knew: Flash'd vibrate himself _through_ the window.

"Darn," said Wally. He always got aches and a bloody nose when he did the vibration trick. But he had to try, or he didn't deserve the powers, the title, the position as Hero. It wasn't right or fair to let the kid be killed in his own _home_ because the guy with the _superpowers _didn't want a headache; he had to put the kid before him and risk himself.

Next thing Kid Flash knew he had jumped in the air and kicked the green car so hard it spun circles _mid-air _and rocketed straightly away. He had less than a billionth of a second to appreciate how much his leg hurt, how far and straight it was stretched, how hard he had just kicked. He began to slow down his perception- - it was all just_ too much- - _ but before he had even finished _that, _he was already vibrating himself so much he was literally going through the window- - and _oh _how it hurt!

When he was inches from the kid he realized if he came at him as fast as he was going, right then, every bone in the little one's body would be broken, so right then, he came back down to earth, snapping his perception back in his face.

He felt himself crashing into something, wrapping his arms around it, and falling.

He opened his eyes, and saw the freckled red-head face of the eight-year-old he had just saved. He stretched his arms stiff so that he was up above the kid in a messed up kinder push-up position. He looked the boy over, checking on other light wavelengths with his goggles. The kid was okay. Kid Flash sat up, pushing his goggles back up his head.

"You look like you're okay, kid," the sidekick said.

The kid smiled a toothy grin and joked, "Better than you." They both giggled. The kid was right. Wally had a bloody nose, was so worn out he was practically shaking in his boots. His face was battered and scratched, his hair a spiking, sweaty mess. But Wally knew he had a job to do. And it was more than pounding baddies into dust.

"Look, kid..." Kid Flash chose his words carefully. "If you feel you're allowed to. . . What's your name?"

The little one, still smiling like the Cheshire Cat, replied, "Rusty." He spoke with a speech impediment, but he sounded confident and sure. "Rusty Garfeild."

"Okee-day, Rusty. I just didn't want this moment to go to waste," started Kid Flash. "I wanted to tell you, a hero is built on more than just superpowers. A hero is someone who wakes up every morning and decides he doesn't care if he gets hurt if he's able to help someone else, if he's able to give somebody a leg up, or to keep a friend- - or a complete stranger, even one of those disgustingly ugly fat people we all try to avoid eye contact with in the school hallways (hey, I know how you think, 'cause I go through the same stuff as anyone else. And you know those pitifully unpopular people? A hero hangs out with them and helps them out, 'cause a shiny bicycle don't need fixing, just a "Rusty" one, eh?)- - anyway," Wally made a motion like pushing something out of the way through the air with his hands ( _Back on track, Kid_), "a hero takes the responsibility and the pain of helping others and making a difference. You guys, the normal dudes without superpowers, you school guys going through all the crap you go through, you military, police, firefighters: You guys are the real heroes."

With that, a little boy-scout salute, a golden-scarlet blur and a back-draft, Kid Flash was gone, leaving Rusty Garfeild gaping behind. He would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

_KOOM! _Kid Flash barely dodged the lightning directed from the sky by the wand of the _Weather Wizard_ before being in danger of his life again by another bolt. Normally, Kid Flash would've counted seconds to see how far away the lightning was: but at point blank range, it didn't matter. And beside the ringing in his ears and the imperitivity of the situation, there was no time for counting. Or thinking. Or shouting. There really wasn't time much for anything at all, except running. Which was what Kid Flash did best. He would've sped up his perception, jogged up to the _Weather Wizard, _and socked him in the jaw, though what with the worn out state he was in, the fastest boy alive would've broken himself using that much Speed Force energy.

_Heck,_ thought he, _just _running _like this is wasting me._

On instinct, Kid Flash zig-zagged , going closer and closer to his enemy. As he began to catch glimpses of the villain, he started to see that he had to point at where he wanted the "weather-magic" to happen before it did. Making a mental note, Wally came even closer to becoming medium-rare, as he formulated a plan, barely missing the strike of antagonistic lightning. He continued to zig-zag, but now he was not just dodging, he was aiming, directing himself, slowly yet surely, towards the _Weather Wizard_.

Before long, Kid Flash was upon the villain, blurring, melting through the ice. He ran right up to the _Wizard_,stood square before him. "Bye, bye," said Kid Flash, cracking a smile, cracking a joke.

The _Weather Wizard _barely had time to wonder at the golden-clad figure standing, arms crossed, in front of him, before he had to gasp and gape and shout: his wand was just pointing _up._

_KRA-KA-BA-CHOOOOOM! _Kid pushed the _Wizard _out of the way of the lightning, though not before the _Weather Wizard _had sustained 2nd degree burns from his hand to midway to his elbow on the arm he held his wand in . . . And the Wand itself was completely fried, atomized and drifting, sailing on the storming winds.

The junior speedster fell over in the process. He was completely wasted. Though in a good way, if possible.

"Boo," said a voice right him. It made Wally shout and jump. He saw a red clad hand outstretched. The Kid took it and pulled himself up, coming face to face with the Flash. "Come on, let's get you rested and cleaned up, little man."

"Rasum frazum frizuh..." the nephew muttered indignently. "You know I hate it when you do that. And what's with the rush, anyway, Uncle?"

"I'm dropping you off. Gotta save the world."


	3. III-Star Queen in Chains

-I-I-I-

Star Queen in Chains

Not Earth. Somewhere near Jupiter. Near present.

The princess slowly sank back into consciousness.

She raised her head, turned, fully and painfully aware of the heavy, metal bindings on her face, the chains, the pain. She could not see. She could barely even lift her head.

Not thinking, the princess tried to flex her shoulders, and the pain immediately shot out from her shoulder blades, to her collar bones, up her spine, jacking the base of the back of her skull, and finally searing behind her eyes. She almost let out a cry, then remembered the metal locking her jaw. Why couldn't she ever remember those stupid chains on her shoulders?

She heard footsteps, thought, If they were going to leave one part of her unsheathed, it _had_ to be the ears. Her ears. They made her listen to those constant screams, the pain of the other prisoners, the agony, the terror. Why? she thinks. They gave her the agony of physical pain; and the wicked, stinging pang of emotion in her throat and chest: her family was _gone_. Who knows, they _could _be living the royal dream as always on their planet, not even missing her. But then, they could also be dead, tortured, eyes cried out that their little Kory was captured and ransomed- -

Her cell's hatch opened, followed by a noise worse than the screech of nails on chalkboard, reverberating in the princess's skull.

Then footsteps, heavy, metallic, footsteps. A creepy disgusting insect-like voice, speaking- - or, more accurately, "hocking up"- - in a scratchy, broken language new to the princess, and she didn't even speak anything even remotely like English. The footsteps grow closer, stoping right before her.

Something clawed grabbed her hair and wrenching upwards; she bit her jaw together to keep from screaming. The creature, a Gordanian guard, rudely rooted her arm up, jarring her around, and sticks a crudely sharp needle into her arm. Nutrient injections. Horrible.

The princess tasted blood and realized she had bitten her tongue. _At least_, thinks she, _I don't have to deal with the chains_.

When the injections were through, the guard got up to leave. No bandages for the princess, no pain meds, no _nothing_. Then the guard thought better of leaving the bleeding alien girl on the floor. Thus, he thumped back over to her, and brought his sharp-booted foot up into her with enough force to hurt a rhino.

An, finally, an agonized scream broke from the dry lips of the princess, the metal restraints crashing into her jaw, her body flying back, chains pulling all over her body, pain, pain, agonizing, throbbing, searing, chafing up her spine, tears burning in her covered eyes. This goes on for a while to the disgusting rhythm of the guard's laughter.

Later, once the princess's nerves had calmed and the pain subsided, she rolled again to her back. She had by now forgotten both pain and sadness, and _she was angry._ Those disgusting Gordanians had destroyed her city, murdered her people, put her in chains while her parents watched, tortured her! She was _royalty _for crying out loud. The princess wouldn't stay for this, not now, not anymore!

All the rage and hatred and strife welled up inside her, adrenaline pumped, and she pushed up into the chains pulling her limbs out as the metal crunched apart. She felt heat in her eyes, but it wasn't tears: she didn't even feel pain. It was the starbeams, shooting from her eyes and out through her constraints.

_They should have known better than to take a Tameranian princess hostage! _She had her power back, and with it her hope. The princess was going to escape this stink pit of a Gordanian prison star-transport.

She was going to escape.


	4. IV-Test Run

Disclaimer: I. . . I. . . I don't know what to s-s-s-s-s-sssay. . . that is, I dont own the knowledge- - - 'cause I don't own AAANNNYYYTTTTHHHHIIIIIIIING! Argh! O the humanity! O the ametuer-ness-ity-ish-ness! other things I dont own- - Time! Donuts! Paper! And much much more!

* * *

-I-V-

Test-Run

Richmond. May 7. 19:48 EST.

Victor Stone knew what his father, Prof. Richard Stone would say. But he still asked the question.

"No, Victor."

There it was. 'No, Victor.' Most father's had to tell their sons to get off the computer, but Victor's wouldn't even let him outside.

"Why can't I just go play some football?" Victor pleaded. "With De'Andre and them."

"Didn't you play basketball today, after church? That should be enough physical exercise for one day." Prof. Stone stated. "And besides, it's dark out."

Victor was about to tell his father about the wonders of football in the dark, but Stone dismissed the subject. "Anyway, I have something to show you. You'll love this!" With that, the scientist started out from their massive, gloss-white-walled, vaulted-ceilinged "Family Room." Despite it's name, there was no "family" there anymore. Not since Victor's mother . . . passed. It was now only used for Victor's father's meetings with his colleagues.

There used to be a certain happiness about the space- - whether it was the smell of fresh-baked bread, his mother's decoration, the television playing his cartoons and his mother's music, or something else- - now it was gone, dead with his mother. There was no life, only the tall, empty whitewashed walls.

Victor emerged from his thoughts as he emerged from the air-locked tunnel leading from the grand house to the S.T.A.R. Labs Virginia Subdivision. He followed his emotionless father down numberless mazes of hallways as he flashed specialized and magnetized S.T.A.R Labs personnel cards (and those of high rank), at every corner, it seemed. Other S.T.A.R. Technicians and geeks walked down the hallways too, parting like the Red Sea for the acclaimed and famous _Professor Stone. _They seemed strange, a little more than emotionless, maybe . . . apprehensive? Afraid even?

"What's up with these guys?"

"Hm?" The Professor did not really seem to care. Not a subject he would discuss.

Catching on, Victor said, "It's nothing, _'Pa'._ Nothing."

"Oh, perfect timing! They're just about to start the test run!" Stone's face again lit up with excitement, even though it had been a completely blank slate only moments before.

No, Stone was not a psychopath, or bipolar, nor did he have multiple personalities, or anything of the sort. Prof. Richard Saul Stone was, simply put, a man under a lot of stress with no idea how to deal with said stress. He was not a father. Not at heart anyway. That, in fact, was his problem. He was a scientist that hadn't a clue about dealing with anyone under the age of, say, thirty-five. He had left the upbringing of his son Victor to Samantha, his wife, and when she died, was left in the dark.

He tried his best to bring up Victor by putting him on the path of science (the only path he knew) but Victor was an athlete and could care less about computers, and technology in general. Stone tried to mold him, he wouldn't budge, and thus Stone drew into himself, breaking a gash in his mind and tearing the frame of man and machine even further than it had been, than it should have been torn. He tried to keep all his feelings locked up in a bottle hidden deep within his psyche, and thus that bottle burst under pressure.

This leads to sudden outbursts of strong emotion in the middle of a long period of emotionlessness.

Victor followed his father's gaze down into the arena-esque space 50 meters below the guard rail directly before the two. Down in the center of the stadium floor, a six and a half foot tall suit of advanced armor stood, silent as a sentinel, unmoving as a monolith.

"The X F - Armor 451 _Cyborg_. Most advanced piece of technology in America known at this present moment. Ain't she a beauty. . . " His father seemed to be orally patting himself on the back, and he wouldn't let go without having Victor do the same.

"Yeah, it's awesome, _'Pa.'"_

The _Cyborg _had a silver chest imprinted with the S.T.A.R. Labs logo; its shoulders were shielded by great football-player-like pads; it's right arm was an interconnected silver and blue, armored at the joints, five-fingered. Its hand looked as though it could crush a boulder. The forearm of the left arm gleamed silver, a gigantic cannon of massive metal. Power-filled bolts stood out on organized points around the mysterious weapon-like appendage. Three thick, segmented, pronged fingers stood equally around the front, seeming to hide secrets. The whole left fore arm was of three-meter circumference. It looked strong enough to level a small house.

The helmet appeared to be designed to cover the top left half of the users head, the neck and bottom back of the skull, and the chin; what was not covered with the techy metal was close fitted with a strange, tough-looking material in a unique pattern which most closely resembled dark leather. This material appeared in other places around the _Cyborg_.

A complementary mic. lay near the mouth; over where the left eye would be floated a small red eye-sized holographic targeting screen. Other functions assuredly hid within the crevices and crannies of the suit. No telling what sorts of secrets were protected within the suit, what kinds of technological advancements and weapons.

The whole suit seemed to be prepared and primed, but even so, the armor stayed totally motionless. Victor thought back to what his father had said as they walked up to the arena's edge, something about the techies being about to start the test run. So, the pilot was probably still only getting ready. Victor swiveled his gaze around the space, and found a small, man-sized vault-like hatch, and a landing. The vault opened and through a cloud of pale gas a thin man stepped out, wearing a close-fitting white suit traced around with lines of gray material which sometimes shot up in what seemed like ports.

The man went up to the suit, which opened in a shower of white vapor like that of the hatch. The central abdomen went down in a staircase, the outer chest opened out in two, like the other ligaments. Where the armor opened, the glowing innards of the suit could be seen. At the top of the steps the pilot held to the shoulder plates as he put his legs and arms in their holds. The arms, legs, the abdomen formed back together, like a joust's armor being assembled perfectly on the form of the knight. Watching the display Victor noticed ports in the armor, linking into the gray ports of the man's suit, even into his _head_. Victor was startled. The suit seemed to be growing into and combining with the man! And. . . the suit was called _cyborg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .. . ._

"Your suit is techno-organic. . . !" said Victor.

Professor Stone nodded, a tight smile on his lips. As he spoke he reached up to do something with one ear, and then the other. "Yes, yes, good, Victor. Very, good. But now. Shush- - the show is starting."

The ground beneath the _Cyborg _rose up, floating into the space. And all of a sudden the "show" started: The _Cyborg _jumped- - or really, rocketed from a hundred feet, the equivalent of the gun shot at the start of a race- - or really, an Olympic competition, in which there was only one competitor, and one victor. Or really, there were _two Victors. _. . because one was up on the observation platform. . . but that didn't matter, because an Olympic competition it was- - one of agility, of strength, of speed, of technology. . . The _Cyborg _faced off against huge pillars shooting from all directions out of the walls, keeping them at bay with its hydraulic muscles and tendons; running at speeds rivaling those of the fastest jet; those great bullets of legs extended out like a grass hopper's, thrusting the _Cyborg _up, up, and away. . . Guns, pulsers, night-vision; there was no end to what hid within the _Cyborg_.

The suit seemed to hang up in the air, deadlocked with gravity and winning, and then crashed towards earth; its grasshopper legs stabilized it, and it was still, and all was still.

"Is. . . Is that it?"

"Not quite, Vic."

"Don't call me that. . . " Victor muttered.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing, _'pa'_. I didn't say anything."

"Well, that's okay," Stone began. "But here. Put these in your ears." Stone held his hand out. Within it were two cubes of mechanical mesh. Victor realized the professor had been putting them in as they were talking minutes ago. "Form them to fit your ears first. They're supposed to protect your eardrums from sound."

So. . . Victor's father hadn't heard a thing he had said, but had pretended to? Victor tightened his grip on the railing. To bring his mind off all that, he turned his eyes toward the floor, a hundred and fifty feet below him.

The suit sauntered over to the opposite end of the arena from where all the show began, about ten yards away from the wall. The steel plating on the wall folded back and an organized piling of cinder blocks moved out towards - the suit. Said suit reached out its normal arm, which changed. The form of the hand and wrist shifted and writhed as gears reorganized, until a familiar piece of beautiful machinery stood out, and brought a smile to Victor's face. Gatling gun. The barrel of the gun exploded in fiery gold and the entire space filled with the pounding, writhing, angry noise of machine gun fire. Even through the ear protectors the inside of his head pounded.

When the ringing in his ears subsided, and he looked up, and the dust had cleared, he saw that the entire cinder block piling was gone, blasted to rubble. But the suit wasn't done. The _Cyborg_ turned and walked towards Victor where a heavy, hard metal prism rose slowly, theatrically, out of the ground. The _Cyborg _raised it's other arm up, the one that appeared to be some sort of cannon.

Latches around the circumference of the main port opened and closed, some inner turbine spun slowly. _' Testing. . . '_

A worker came out of some side door and stiffly stretched two thumbs-ups towards the arena, the pilot, the suit, the _Cyborg_. _'Go for lift off. . . ' _The pilot nodded at the workman, then turned his head forward and strengthened his hold on the great cannon. _'All systems go, Houston. . .' _The workman retreated through another secluded side-door.

The suits turbine turned faster. Whirring. Glowing. The whine and all around screech built, and built, getting louder and louder and more unbearable until it erupted into total, uncontrolled white noise. A blue flash blazed out from the cannon, and if it hadn't been for Victor's earplugs he was sure his ears would have burst.

When Victor opened the eyes he hadn't realized he had closed, and the spots and stars had cleared, he saw a perfect circle, cut out of the metal prism, down to the thousandth of pi, probably.

The suit had done that, but it was still thirty feet away from the prism. The gun had done it, but it hadn't fired a shot. Had it, then, been the flash of electric blue light? No, no, thought Victor, that was just a discharge of energy. Like heat from a light bulb.

Then it had to be ultra-loud noise, that was the only option left. But that couldn't have been it, sound couldn't do that. Right?

As the revelation blasted Victor like the suit's cannon, his eyes again doubled in size. Professor Stone recognized the stunned and gawking expression on Victor's face, and said, "Some beauty, eh? Designed the sonic wave cannon myself. What did you think of it, Vic?"

Why ask that question at all, thought Victor. The answer was all over his face, but Stone just wanted someone to tell him how awesome he was. The professor hadn't listened to a thing Victor had said this whole time, or really, ever in either of their lives.

Victor had had enough."It wouldn't matter to you anyway."

Stone saw Victor's angrily contorted features, reached out his hand. "Vic, no please, listen- - "

But Victor was already walking- - or, stalking off. He wouldn't have any of it, the tears of anger fulfilled that.

Victor didn't see, but a single tear- - a painful, hot, salty tear- - fell from his father's face, onto his outstretched arm.

* * *

AN: Tag! anyway, hello again guys. long time no see... very long time. . . . . sorry. it was very hard to write this chapter, for some reason. anywho, so now I've introdeuced Victor Stone into the mix. I'm trying to make his relationship with his father like Joe and Officer Lamb from Super 8. very good movie. and I tried to make the design of the X F - Armor 451 _Cyborg_ slightly resemble a certain teen superhero from a certain teen super group from a certain comic universe, who has a certain name which may or may no have a relation to the name of the _Cyborg._

I hope to be posting more often now, but summer still ain't quite here, so I cant make any guarentee's. hope so though.

leave a review please (very encouraging and helpful)

God bless.


	5. V-Smog and Shadow

Disclaimer: I do not own this. None of it. I mean, I wrote it, _I_ created it, _I_ made it up, but, I don't own it. If you can figure out how that works, folks, I'd _love_ to know. It's like one of those jokes that you tell and at the beginning you don't think it sounds very funny at all and you want to run away as fast as you can but you have hope in the friend telling the joke so you stick around and the punch line is terrible and makes even less sense than the average joke does and you end up running _and_ screaming. Anyway, none of this is mine, I don't own the characters, and if someone wants to sue my pen-name is Flash_man250. Not Knightime.

A/N: I base a lot of the relationship of Wally and Barry on my relationship with my dad, so that's where some of that comes from, but even with all that Wally's parents' house is actually base upon one of my friends' house, so I don't really know about that. Nor do I know about Iris. That's one of the details I haven't worked out yet, they're still dating I think, not engaged. They love eachother, but Barry is still figuring out if he should tell her about him being the Flash, and if anything could actually work out, and stuff, so he hasn't asked the question yet. So because of this Barry isn't technically Wally's uncle, but they met through Iris and spend a lot of time together. I think in the aftermath of this story or in the last act/epilogue section Barry asks Iris to marry him and she, of course, says yes.

-v-

Smog and Shadow

Outside of Gotham City. May 7. 21:05 EST.

Right now, as Wally West observes the squat, dirty, barren buildings of Gotham, he comes to a conclusion: this is not the place he had pictured himself being in an hour ago, nor is it the place he would prefer to be. But- - how and why is he in Gotham City? This story comes between the epic fight between the Flashes and the Weather Wizard and Wally's arrival in Gotham. In the confusion of the aftermath of the battle they changed into civilian clothes to get a cab (Barry had pushed his nephew harder than ever before by leaving him on his own against someone they knew close to nothing about, and didn't want to push too far by running all the way back home; therefore, they got a cab) which they promptly directed toward Barry's Riverston Ave. apartment.

CSI Barry Allen doesn't have a mansion, but his meager apartment isn't a box under a bridge either. Wally considers this place as being meantto give him an escape _apart _from his parents' huge two story house decked with a pool and jacuzzi, full size kitchen, basement, and much, much more. Barry's apartment's much more modest: A medium-sized two-bedroom in an average complex; someplace normal. Just what Wally needs from his uncle, someplace normal. Apart from all the superhero biz, at least.

The cabby comes up to_ the_ _Pier _at_ Riverston Ave._, and the two get out. They walk to their apartment, settle in. But when Wally gets out of the shower Barry is still there, sitting on the amazing reclining couch of leather amazingness reading his latest sci-fi novel on his iPhone, even though he had earlier said he was going to drop Wally off. Apparently he was dropping Wally off with someone else later but had decided to leave him here to rest in the mean time. Wally's exhausted head doesn't make the connection, showing out in an awkward look on his face. Seeing this, Barry explains.

"That call I had to take during the fight was from one of my secretive contacts," Barry elaborates, referring to one the Flash's masked allies. The majority of these "contacts"have been working together off and on for the past six months. In this group, Barry so claims, is an interstellar space cop with a "power-ring", a warrior princess from a mythological island full only of beautiful immortal women, a "manhunter" from the planet Mars who's name was John, the alien in the red cape from Metropolis, and a vigilante detective from Gotham that was said to be a vampire. (Of course, Wally believes the part about Batman; he is best friends with his side-kick and the Dark Knight has worked with the Flash many times, but those other dudes? Barry is _obviously _making stuff up.) "He was telling me there was something he needed me for, something he was gonna call our whole troop of "super friends" in for too. Even so, I told him we were in the middle of something, and he said it wasn't urgent yet. He had something on his plate as well, and the earliest the others could meet was nine-thirty our time. So I decided that, since you'd so heroically burned yourself out, I would take us back and let you get cleaned up and rested before I take you. And yes, I'm dropping you off with Richard."

At this Wally is delighted- - He loves Richard Grayson as a brother- - but. . . something isn't right. He isn't looking forward so much to seeing Grayson; this weekend is for Barry and him. That night they had been going to catch a bite of pizza and a movie, and then this change of plans comes along. Wally asks if they would still be able to get in the movie movie and the pizza, and Barry replies with a shew of his hand and a "Go get some rest. We'll finish this conversation later." But from the wink in his uncles eyes and the pitifully repressed smile on his face, Wally can tell Barry likes the idea. The Kid wins another argument.

He rushes out of bed around thirty minutes later from around five minutes of true sleep to see left-over heated-up pizza on the coffee table and a blu-ray queuing up on the high-def screen. They eat a swift yet prolonged supper with the beginning of _The Empire Strikes Back_, afterwards putting on their hats and departing.

From there, they get in Barry's car- - a classic Mustang he'd gotten for a deal he'd practically swindled- - and take to the freeway for a half hour drive into a shady looking town comprised of alleyways and gutters, smog and shadow.

So, they'll exit the car and step into one of those close-quarters, puddle-ridden, shadow-sieged alleyways. And in the late hours where twilight draws to a close, night begins, and all the scum and demons crawl out of their holes to eat something innocent, Wally West will be left weary, wary, tired, and more than slightly confused.

Present.

Wally peered through the window of the '69 mustang, his vision cast out upon cold, hard, damp walks and walls. He looked out on the shut windows, locked doors, the dreary fear and distrust of east-end Gotham City.

The car pulled sedately into the curb, black water splashing onto the sidewalk. Wally opened the door of the Mustang and plotted his course with care as his hot rod red Converse shoes were new. He closed the car door and held his hand on the roof as he waited for his uncle in expectation. Barry came up two beats after, smiling a weak smile. He trudged through the dimness and grog towards Wally, thinking naught of the action of the sticky gunk and trash on his leather shoes. Barry put his arm around Wally, and Wally playfully shoved it off, and they both smiled, though the literal and figurative atmosphere leached any excess cheer away.

They crossed the street to an alley directly on their course, followed it and turned onto another, and another, and another until they were within a deep labyrinth of black stench and filth. As they went farther in the alleyway walls seemed to contract ever closer as if they were not trekking into the heart of some forgotten inner-city, but walking into the belly of a great hideous snake. Paths through muck began to be harder to find, in some places nil. Upon all this too came a smoke, a thick terrible chemical smog, reaching from the shadows with dirty fingers. This went on for some time, and all the while not a soul was seen, for ill or good Wally couldn't tell.

As ominous and foreshadowed as these claustrophobic grogs and alleys had come on them, the relief was not subtle at all, in fact very abrupt.

Wally stepped into what could almost be described as a clearing. The tight alleyways were replaced by a spacious, yet still shadowed and dank opening where it appeared a road had once lived but had dead-ended and now-condemned buildings shot up like weeds in a garden, and the whole populace had run for their lives from the mire and darkness. The resulting pit had made a very unique opportunity, and somehow seemed helpful, although for what exactly could not be said.

Across from the two another alley opened; towards here was where the CSI led then.

Once they had entered into the alley far enough, an old-style lamppost switched on, its light illuminating a circular patch of ground and casting all outside into an even deeper darkness. Barry shepherded his nephew inside the island of light. Even a cop with a gun on his hip and ring in his pocket which fired out a scarlet uniform withstanding ultrasonic speeds could fear the dark, or rather, what lurked within. A dull hiss came from the other end of the lamppost's reach and Wally, beside himself, stepped closer to his uncle.

Accompanying the hiss erupted geysers of steam, forming a square in the rocky floor which rose up and opened out. A great mechanical submersible lurched from within, a hatch opened on this vessel, and out stepped. . . . a boy? Yes, but not any boy. A boy who had been a famous acrobat since grade school, who had taken down a big time mobster on his own. He made a career out of taking down drug rings, mobsters, maniacs, and all around villains. He could throw ninja stars, parcor better than most Hollywood spy stunt doubles, fight with a bow staff better than Rocky fought with his fists, and could even make capes, tights, _and_ armored vests look good.

His name was Richard Grayson.

Richard Grayson was unsettled. No, that wasn't the word. Something more. . . potent.

The man who was supposed to be his father had left him for dead with a psychotic killer with nothing but a glare and was now trying to get rid of him like yesterday's trash. Grayson didn't show it, but he stood near his limit.

As the steam jet had begun to slow he searched for the right word. More than unsettled but less than upset. Dis. . . discouraged? . . . distressed. And as it rose from the ground like a specter he wished for only one thing, but he couldn't place the yearning. He needed something, but he stuffed it deep into his mind and hid everything from the boy he saw standing in a slim circle of light that glinted like sharp flames in bright red hair. Despite himself, Grayson smiled.

The boy in the rigid ominous shadow that had come out of the sewer system raised an arm to the city boy that liked a little more light, and a little less stink, in welcomes, and jumped down.

"Wally! What are you doing in this part of town, dude? That bright red mess on your head sticks out like a sore thumb here, bro," Dick remarked as he clasped his friend's hand in his in greeting and embraced Wally in what the guys at school might call a "Man-Hug." And though he joked, it was not because he _felt _very jolly. It was their language, and he wouldn't paint himself bad by conversing in a foreign toung.

"How's it going, you short scruffy looking rich kid." Wally smiled, obviously enjoying the friendly rivalry. "And if I might say, such a snotty-yes, that's the word I was looking for!- rich kid must be pretty desperate to muck about in this muck."

"Yeah, you and your uncle just barely missed a storm system. What a shame."

Wally and Barry caught each others' eyes with a mutual glint, sharing some inside joke. "Oh, we did did we?" The two laughed, quietly, and Dick looked down at the ground, but that seemed to go unnoticed by all.

Grayson moved to say his hellos to Barry. "Good evening, Mister Allen." They grasped hands in a hard tight grip. People always said Grayson had a good hand-shake, even though the best hand-shakes have no actual shake.

Barry replied, "I keep telling you to just call me Barry. Oh wait, you live with Alfred. He must rub off on you." They smiled, and their hands dropped.

"I still see there's no ring on your ring finger," Richard observed in his tight respectful language he learned from his father and his father's books, "_Mr. Allen. _If I might ask, when are you going to _tie the knot _with Miss Iris? Ah, scratch that. I know how troublesome and time-consuming the" (at this he lowered his voice some) "_superhero biz _can be."

Barry, embarrassed, scratched the back of his head. "Ah, of course that's why we haven't gotten married yet," he said, more than a hint of sarcasm dripping. "That's definitelythe reason. Because of course there _is _one."

Richard shrugged, noticing the joviality and deeming the respectful thing to compete in this also. "Right, I get it." He grinned and nodded, pointing a finger gun at Barry. "You're in the _'armed forces'!"_ Grayson exaggerated a revelation. "And then Miss Iris is even a _reporter, too_!_ Whoooa_!"

Barry chuckled and smiled and examined his shoes. "Oh, yeah, of course. That's _definitely _the reason, Richard."

Grayson nodded like he understood.

Wally looked from his friend with his uncle to the tall shadowy form that rose from near the "Bat-Boat", thinking he should probably go and say Good evening or at least Hello, but even so he didn't want to. He had seen the Dark Knight a couple times beforehand but he didn't think he'd ever not be unnerved by that hulking, monolithic silhouette, its ears spiking up like a gargoyle; and being there in that alleyway, the shadows with their grasping searching fingers all around, that didn't help a bit. He had no idea how Grayson his friend had ever gotten used to it. If asked, he'd probably just say he _hadn't. _

"Um . . . " Wally walked hesitantly toward the _Batma__n_, and hoped he nor his friend could see his knees wobble. He stretched out his hand, although there was still distance to be closed between him in the avenger of the night. "Good. . . good evening?"

The Dark Knight saw the discomfort and fear in the young face and eyes of his own surrogate son's greatest friend, and felt something himself. He was ashamed; if Alfred were here he would have scolded him, and his father would not have been proud. His _father . . . . _

His father was why he was there, right there, right then. The reason he had undergone eight years of rigorous, terrible, awesome training, but more than that, the fear, the anger, the _pain. _The confusion and rage and overwhelming sense of loss. The kind of evil none should experience. _That _was why he was here. The reason he dressed like a bat every night and made the shadows his home and had devoted his life to the heart of a small boy who had felt the same loss as he had. He had done all this so no one else would have to, to feel his pain, to be tossed out into the darkness of the world all alone and without someone to lean on.

The hunter of the hateful stepped forward into the light of the lamppost and stooped to the eye level of the boy in front of him. Batman flexed the cloak from his chest and put his hand on Wally's shoulder. "Wally, please, don't be afraid. I came to inspire fear into the hearts of criminals, not children. Fear is something no one should carry, but that's why those few who enslave innocents to it must be enslaved to it themselves. That's why I'm here, to make sure that no one your age should feel afraid. I scare the superstitious and preying, not the innocent and cared-for. I made a mistake I should never have made. Now, _good. Evening._" With that the detective smiled, and a warmth like Christmas morning spread through the whole troop, a warmth that penetrated to your inner heart and invaded even the deepest crannies of your soul. A smile that tells you someone cares, that there really is a guardian watching, someone you can go to for help and love, who once needed it and found it himself. He stood, tall and full of power, a father instead of a demon.

No, not a father. A prince. A knight.

The Dark Knight.

Barry offered to take the boys to the subway. Grayson turned toward his mentor and noticed with slight surprise that the Batman had taken the stark white lenses from over his eyes to reveal emotion in the fullest most robust extent. He knelt down to Grayson, and simply said, "We'll talk later, okay?" He almost gave his protege a hug, but under the circumstances maybe not. Things were still to be worked out, hence the talk later part. And besides, hugs don't work as well when you're a. in armor and b. dressed up like a bat. And it was all to make Richard feel better; Bruce knew his adopted better son better than either of them knew, and could easily tell something was wrong. Heck, he knew exactlywhat had happened, and sadly knew it was wholly and entirely his own fault. Robin thought he'd been abandoned down in the sewers, but in reality Batman had been there the whole time, floating just beyond Robin's sight, making sure nothing harmful _could _have happened. He left Richard on his own because he knew he could handle it; he believed in him. His plan had been to take Richard through the exercise and afterward explain everything. But Bruce had neglected that whatwith getting together his league of associates to go help with something big in the Atlantic, there wouldn't _be _any "afterwards". Furthermore he had neglected to think of what that expeirience alone would do to a teenager, and then, without help or back-up. No less a teenager like Richard who'd had his family murdered before his eyes and then gone to another father who was rarely there anyway and had him go _fight crime _every night while juggling school and every other thing a teenager goes through- - and to go through it without a very good father figure!

. . . This wasn't what Bruce had intended at all. He would just have to wait and hope for the best. . .

Barry brought the boys to the subway, bought snacks, said "I love you" to Wally and "See you later" to both, and waited until they got on the train to leave. But before he could leave he had to find a place to change. He got out his ring and looked around.

. . . A phone booth. Right there. He began to walk towards it, and realized what a dumb idea that was, so Barry (after parking his Mustang in a garage) went out into a deserted alley to suit up, speeding off back to Batman.

The crimson blur took shape before the bat, who said the sewer jet was on auto-pilot towards home, and the two men shook hands and sauntered off together into the clearing, towards a thin alley slicing its way through the solid barricade of red brick and gray concrete, as if the first wall of defense for an impenetrable fortress. Hanging like a door at the entrance to this shadowed passage was a raggedy length of cloth, some old forgotten poncho or quilt fastened to a line of twine. It was not there to bar access but perhaps, rather, to act as a warning. Or even a cover.

One at a time, the men tugged the quilt up, stepping through into darkness. With that they were gone.

A/N: So, folks, to clear things up here is the Batman-Robin timeline: about 18 months ago Richards parents died, and 5-7 weeks after that Bruce fosters him, and he figures out Bruce is Bats, and he decides to become Robin. 10- 20 days later Bruce begins to try and adopt Richard and, of course, it happens. Around that time they go through struggle about how Bruce is not being a good father to Grayson, but they work it all out and get a good balance. They do usually have a good relationship, but then this Killer Croc character comes along and they spend too much time tracking him and they grow farther apart, and then of course all this stuff happens and their relationship crumbles apart again. So they do have a very good relationship, it just falls apart here. So, review please, and God Bless.


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